


A Long-Awaited Exhale

by MadSeason (naive_wanderer)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, a post-bus-ride episode 6 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naive_wanderer/pseuds/MadSeason
Summary: “What’s wrong?” Crowley asks, turning, and his face looks nearly impassive but Aziraphale can see the concern there, the concern that surely must have been there for years and years and years, deserved or not.“I know what you were asking,” Aziraphale says, and oh, that’s not quite it, is it, it’s not what he means at all.





	A Long-Awaited Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> Adding my (brief) voice to the plethora of wonderful fics set after the bus ride in episode 6. Hi!

Aziraphale hesitates, when they reach the threshold of Crowley’s building. He’d been sure of his decision for the entire bus ride; hadn’t hesitated during the walk from the stop to the door, but now they’re here, and the velvet embrace of night as he stares up and up towards Crowley’s top-floor flat suddenly feels suffocating.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks, turning, and his face looks nearly impassive but Aziraphale can see the concern there, the concern that surely must have been there for years and years and years, deserved or not.

“I know what you were asking,” Aziraphale says, and oh, that’s not quite it, is it, it’s not what he means at all.

Crowley’s face shifts very quickly from concern, to surprise, to vague amusement, then back to concern. “It’s honestly only a place to stay, angel, there’s nowhere else for you to go.” And then, when Aziraphale doesn’t quite answer but for a vague shake of the head, “Look, I won’t--I’m not going to _make_ you, but we should probably--I really don’t want to just leave you out there after today, I can go wherever you like--”

“Like you always do,” Aziraphale interrupts, and Crowley does really look very concerned now. He’s scared, Aziraphale realizes.

“Aziraphale--”

“No, don’t be silly, of course I’m coming up,” Aziraphale says, and his heart is pounding. How ridiculous, when it doesn’t really need to do that at all--some part of him must want it to, mustn’t it? It has been a long day. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Silly, yeah,” says Crowley, as Aziraphale continues to dither by the stoop. Crowley is beginning to get frustrated, he knows, which was not really the purpose of this entire conversation. “What _do_ you mean?”

“All the other times,” Aziraphale pleads. “You said we’ve been friends for six thousand years. You were right. All the other times we’ve met, and you’ve--I just want you to know--” he swallows. He doesn’t know why it’s so important, right this second, but it is. And if everything truly was part of the ineffable plan, then there would be time for it, anyway. “I know, Crowley, what you’ve been asking me. I suppose I just... want you to know. That. Um. I have known.”

Crowley goes very still. Aziraphale has always thought he blends into the background exceedingly well when he does that; were it not for his impatience to show himself to Aziraphale when they’ve met through the ages, he might have become a master lurker. For all Aziraphale knows, he has, when they’re not together. The thought doesn’t sit quite right.

Crowley’s voice, when it comes out, is soft and clipped. “And what exactly is it that you think I’ve been asking you?”

For a moment, Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. Then, abruptly, he does. “To choose you. And I’ve never been entirely clear about my answers, have I.”

Aziraphale is met with silence, which he might have expected. It sends waves of anxiety washing over him nonetheless. It’s not part of their usual song and dance, after all, just saying it like that, but he’s fairly certain it’s the right thing to do. He’s fairly certain it’s the kind of thing Crowley’s been waiting for. Fairly certain.

He watches Crowley’s adam’s apple bob a few times as he swallows.

Then Crowley sniffs, very interested in the signpost to the left of Aziraphale’s head. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders momentarily near his ears. For a second, Aziraphale worries he might not say anything at all. Then, in true Crowley fashion, he bumbles on through the awkwardness. “I just--wanted you to choose what you want, not what you think you should want. I know there were--lots of reasons why, uh, lots of--reasons, yeah, over the years. It didn’t have to be me,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly soft, surprisingly patient, like it always has been, like it’s no bother for him to wait, like he hasn’t been waiting and longing for thousands of years. “It still doesn’t. Honestly.”

“But you want it to be,” says Aziraphale.

“Well,” Crowley says, finally, finally looking at him. “Yes.”

He shrugs a little; raises his eyebrows behind his glasses as if to say, ‘and isn’t it obvious?’. And of course, Aziraphale thinks, of course it is. He came back for him three times.

Aziraphale glances up at Crowley’s building. A glorious, deep weight has settled in his heart, and it’s nearly as suffocating as before but he doesn’t think he’d trade it for anything in the world. “My dear,” he says, hoping two words can convey every millisecond of love he’s ever felt over the millennia, “Who on earth else could it be?”

A cloud seems to pass over Crowley’s face, or perhaps a cloud that has been there for a very long time indeed finally clears, and for a moment Crowley looks everywhere but at him. He breathes in, once, very slowly, then unlocks the door with a snap of his fingers. “Come on up, then,” he says, in a voice that wavers like drinking alone at the end of the world, and when he offers his hand Aziraphale takes it, at last.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @madseason


End file.
